Fic: Run and Hide
Run and Hide
Summary: A fill for a request some months back for MID/DID fic by katsuyakaiba69.
Warnings: ABUSE. Violence, blood, gore, disturbing imagery.
Note: This will not read like, or resemble, other MID/DID fics or fictionalized accounts. Please see additional notes at the end for an explanation.
This story is brought to you by our sponsors salty_catfish and hokuton_punch, without whom this thing never would have seen the light of day. All praise and kudos to them!
Run and Hide
______________________________
You are the town and we are the clock.
We are the guardians of the gate in the rock
The Two
On your left and on your right
In the day and in the night,
We are watching you.
-W. H. Auden
______________________________
Sam stayed in the dark. His frame was too big, really, limbs too awkward and unwieldy for the small space, but he did his best. Outside a woman was hollering in a language he didn’t understand, and kids were shrieking in the courtyard. The occasional siren and crying baby added to the general cacophony. Sam, huddled in the tiny apartment’s tinier closet, could barely make out any of it. The outside world was nothing but a blurry cloud of distant noise.
He curled in on himself, resting his forehead on his knees and letting his hands curl loosely against his chest. His hair fell around his face. He’d never got around to cutting it. He listened to the sound of his breath, the only distinct noise in the little space.
Once, the sound had been doubled.
Dean, Sam knew, had never really enjoyed it much, all the stints they’d done as kids stuffed into closets and cupboards for indefinite periods of time. (“You boys stay inside until I tell you it’s safe.”) He’d born it stoically, though, and Sam was pretty sure it’d mostly been for his sake. He’d wondered, once or twice, if Dean would’ve gone along with their father’s orders so quickly if Sam hadn’t been there. (“No sounds, Sammy.”) If he hadn’t needed a big brother to look out for him.
Those were the kinds of questions Sam usually tried not to think about too deeply. He had early memories of curling into Dean’s side in the quiet dark while his brother rocked them both gently and sang songs with made-up words, sometimes in English, sometimes in the stranger idioms they heard their father muttering in the night. Even years later, when he’d learned the reason for all the time spent in small spaces-not only closets but inside cupboards and under sinks and beds and, on one memorable occasion, squeezed into an oven-he couldn’t find it in himself to be terrified.
“Shh. S’okay, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay.”
“It’s dark, Dean.”
“I know, kiddo.”
He could still, if he closed his eyes, call up a phantom sensation of Dean’s arms around his shoulders, squeezing so tightly he left marks on his skin which were visible the next day. He could feel the warmth that settled between them and the feeling of Dean’s chin resting on top of his head.
“When can we come out?”
“When it’s safe.”
“When will it be safe?”
“When Dad says so. When he gets back.”
Sam had been six when Dean had finally told him the truth. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been in the closet of that week’s motel room, silent and clinging to each other, listening out for their father’s return. Sam’s heart beat loudly in his chest and head, in the space between himself and his brother. He might have fallen asleep, actually, because when Dean moved unexpectedly Sam started and his head was full of achy fog, his eyes sticky.
Dean had said, “Sam,” and pushed him away a little bit. Just a little, and an uneasy feeling swept over Sam, but then he realized Dean was only taking a moment to draw a deep, shuddering breath and pass a hand across his face. At ten he’d seemed so large. Had filled up Sam’s world.
Dean, who took care of him.
“Sammy there’s…there’s something I need to tell you, okay? About this, about,” he paused to wave a hand around, encompassing most of their lives in that simple gesture. “About all of this.”
Sam nodded. Dean’s face was a mess of shadows, was nothing Sam could recognize.
“Sammy, listen.” Dean kept his voice low and serious, so that there would be no way for Sam to misunderstand his words as some kind of joke.
“Kiddo,” he’d said, “Monsters are real.”
When their Dad came and let them out the next day, Sam’s limbs were stiff and aching, and the little space stank. Dean, Sam recalled, had tried to get their Dad to leave them a bowl or something, but had been overridden and rushed into the closet too quickly.
Sam was an adult now, though. Didn’t have to worry about staying inside. About pissing himself. Didn’t have to sit in closets at all, and if Dean were here he’d probably tell Sam in no uncertain terms what he thought of his grown-ass little brother hanging around in a closet when he didn’t have to. When the whole reason he’d sent Sam away was to make sure he’d never have to again. Dean would frown and look worried and say “Why you doin’ this to yourself, kiddo?” and Sam would shrug and mumble and promise not to do it again.
But Dean wasn’t here. He’d sent Sam away. Packed him up and shipped him out into the world. So now Sam curled in on himself as much as possible and shut his eyes, and pulled from deep inside the memory of his brother’s heartbeat. Between himself and the wall he could almost feel Dean’s breath, and the ghost of his brother’s fingers rested on his shoulders and gently smoothed his hair.
Dean would be okay. When Sam left, he had promised to be okay.
______________________________
Sometimes Dad talked about fire.
Dean wasn’t sure why. Dad got upset, sometimes, and then he was big and loud and sharp. He didn’t talk to Dean when he was like that, or to Sammy either. His voice made Dean shiver, made it cold inside. When that happened Dean went and sat with Sammy, and ran his hand over his baby hair, again and again. It was soft and stuck to his hand a little, all staticky. Sometimes Sammy cried, especially when Dad was loud, but right now he was quiet and Dad was in the other room. Dean could hear the low murmur of his voice. He wasn’t really upset. Just looking at the papers and cutting things out.
Dean wanted to know about the pictures pinned to the walls, and the papers Dad kept piled up by the door and in the kitchen. He didn’t ask, though. He thought about it a lot but the words, like most words, stayed where they were in his mouth and throat and belly. They hurt a little bit on the way out, sharp like broken things, catching and grating on his skin. Mostly he kept them inside.
Dad didn’t like it when Dean didn’t talk, but most of the time he didn’t really seem to notice. Dean was glad about that.
Right now he was happy where he was, sitting in the room with his brother. He pulled Sammy up from the rug where he was playing and into his lap, and petted him a little. Sammy burbled and made baby noises. He was kind of a noisy baby, but Dean thought he’d be able to teach him to be quiet. Being quiet was important, and Sammy was smart. Dad said so a lot.
Sammy was special.
When Dad came in the room after a while, he picked up Sammy and set him carefully in his crib.
Dad said some words Dean didn’t know, and smiled a kind of crooked smile. The way he did a lot now. Dean tried to stand up a little straighter when Dad looked at him.
“Hey there Deano.” He was still smiling, and Dean smiled too. “You like hangin’ out with Sammy, huh?”
Dean nodded, and when he did Dad’s smile faded, a little. Dean watched him and was careful not to back up. Didn’t turn his head or look away.
“Hey.” Dad got down on one knee and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder. His hands were really big. “Hey, son, I need you to answer me. When I ask a question.”
Dean nodded again, more sharply this time, and Dad’s brow furrowed. The smile was gone, now. Dean didn’t look around, or think about the air, or the light coming in the window, or the dry noise that wasn’t a noise like whispers, or like fingers brushing against walls. The sides of his head were hot. Behind his forehead, above his ears. Hot and tight.
“Son,” Dad said in a low, firm tone, “When I ask you a question, you answer me. Understand?”
Dean started to open his mouth, a little, and a big hand wrapped around the bottom of his jaw and fingers curled into the space above his teeth, pushing the skin in. Dean’s shoulders and neck tightened, belly trembling a little. The sides of his head squeezed.
“Dean,” Dad said, words as soft as Sammy’s hair.
There was spit in Dean’s mouth. He couldn’t swallow because his jaw was being forced open. Sharpness dug in at his shoulder and into the skin of his face where Dad’s fingers pushed.
His breath came short and light. The walls were hot, and pushing on him.
“You say ‘yessir,’ boy.”
There was a big open space. Space for words and for something else. For a bright light and a furious animal roaring. And screaming. He pulled back from it, from the light and noise. A high voice screaming the way it did sometimes at night, crawling around the edges of the walls and up and down the doorway. He was pulling back as far as he could. Into the open place.
His mouth worked a little. Dad wasn’t hurting him.
Light flickered at the edge of his vision.
Sometimes Dad talked about fire, but Dean wasn’t sure why.
“Say ‘yessir’.”
Dean’s tongue pushed across his teeth. They were small, and rough. Far away. There was an open space, inside or maybe outside. Huge and empty.
“’ss…”
“Dean.”
Far away. Like spinning around and around and then stopping and the world going on. Dizzy and wide open.
“ss-s-si…”
A light. Bright and loud. Or an open space. Huge and open, empty. No light. No noise. No screamingscreaming. No. No.
Open.
Take your brother
Dean!
Say ‘yessir’
Dad’s smile.
“Yessir.”
Someone said, “Yessir.”
A light.
“Yessir.”
Dad wasn’t hurting him.
Someone said, “Yessir.”
______________________________
Sam slapped out blindly in the dark, and the figure looming over his bed cursed softly and stumbled backward. There was a noise of a heavy body smacking into the table, the crash of a water glass hitting the floor. Sam sat up, shoving his hair out of his face with one slightly trembling hand.
“Dean?”
“Ow,” his brother hissed. The noise of fumbling in the dark cut off abruptly when the lamp clicked on, and Sam stared up at his big brother, squinting in the sudden glare. Dean’s face was drawn, distressed, mouth pressed tight and eyes wide. He stared at Sam wordlessly for a moment, blinking rapidly in the light.
“Dean,” Sam breathed, “Jesus.”
Dean jerked at the sound of Sam’s voice and stepped back quickly toward the closet. Sam stared after him. If this was intended as some kind of reunion, it was a piss-poor one. His brother was hauling Sam’s largest duffle from the closet, and he flinched when Dean flung it across his legs. He’d expected at least a greeting. A quiet, “Hey, Sammy.” Something.
“Get your things, Sam. Now. We gotta go.”
“What-” Sam struggled to untangle himself from the confines of the bedcovers, and the heavy bag slid to the floor with a muffled thump. Dean grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet, grip almost painful, and started throwing clothes at him.
“Pack. Get your toothbrush. Come on, Sammy, we gotta be outta here like, yesterday.”
“Dean. Dean.” Sam grabbed up the bag and stumbled after his brother as he swept into the bathroom and grabbed up toiletries in a whirlwind of over-efficiency. “Why are you-two years, man! You said it was fine! Everything was fine! And now you-you just show up out of the-What in hell are you-”
Dean looked up, eyes wide. “Sammy, please. Would you just-it’s John, okay? He’s been looking for you.”
Sam froze.
“John’s been looking for you.” Dean repeated, drawing closer, lowering his voice. “I mean really looking. Like, he’s got a plan. A reason to find you. He’s in town right now. Sam.”
“What-I thought-” Sam reached out, grabbed the shaving kit and toothbrush from Dean’s hands and frantically stuffed them in the duffle. “Weren’t you with him? I thought you were with him!”
Dean made a noise somewhere between contempt and dismay. “No, I wasn’t with him. It’s not my-Christ Sammy. I just found out like, today. Now would you move your ass?”
“Jesus fuck.” And Sam was yanking clothes out of drawers and shoving them haphazardly in the bag. He couldn’t take much, he knew. And anything he left behind would be fair game for their father.
“How did he find me? How the hell did he even know-”
“John’s damn good hunter,” Dean said quietly. He was shifting from one foot to the other, anxious to be gone.
“Christ,” Sam muttered, yanking on jeans and shirts, grabbing his wallet and stuffing whatever important papers he could lay hands on into the duffle, ignoring the way they buckled and folded at the rough treatment. “Jesus H. fucking Christ.”
“Hell of a mouth you got on you there, kiddo.” Dean pushed out the door and cast a glance up and down the hall. Sam fell in behind him, letting his brother’s anxiety infect him and send them both hurrying down the stairs and out into the night, gracelessly tumbling into the interior of the Impala.
“He gave you the car?” Sam whispered, running a reverent hand along the dash. Dean bit his lip, eyes flickering.
“No,” he murmured, but offered no further explanation and Sam didn’t push. The engine screamed into life and Dean stomped on the gas with surprising violence. Sam flinched. Aggression didn’t suit Dean and he wondered if maybe it was the car lending sharpness to his gestures, tightening gentle hands and hardening the planes of his face.
They squealed away from the apartment building and into the night, heading east. As far away from John as they could practically manage. There was no need for discussion. Sam had been running for a long time.
After about half an hour of almost perfect silence, Sam shifted around in his seat, biting his lip briefly and casting a quick glance at his brother.
“You wanna let me know how this happened, Dean?”
Dean drew a long breath.
“What do you want me to say, Sammy? I did my best, okay?”
“You blew it, you mean! You said you’d stay with him, keep him off my trail.”
“I did. You know I did. For-for a long time.”
Sam folded his arms. “Then what happened?”
“I don’t-” Dean shook his head sharply. “I don’t know, okay? It just-I wasn’t with him, okay, and when I caught up again he was already in California. I did the-the best I could, Sam. To slow him down until I could get to you.”
Sam realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to exhale normally.
“He’s not going to-”
Dean shook his head again.
“No, okay? Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Sam nodded. He leaned back in the seat, pulled his jacket a little more tightly around himself, and tried to relax.
______________________________
The stained and battered bathtub was filled with cold water, still as a deep well in the little room. He knew better than to touch the water, knew that moving from this spot would do nothing but get him into trouble. He remained standing between the door and the mirror, staring at the water that did not move, the shadows below its surface almost blue. Deep and silent. He knew it went down a long way. Much farther than the visible shallow depths.
Much, much farther.
He drew a quick breath, felt his ribs expand. He had a job to do here.
It would make him stronger. Help him protect Sammy.
John came in and closed the door softly. He had a small vial and cloth in hand, and he gave a quick jerk of his head. Said, “Get your clothes off.”
John knew about monsters. It was important to listen to John.
He stripped quickly, folded up his clothes and placed them carefully on the toilet seat. John nodded his approval.
“Come here.”
He drew closer in the small cold room without hesitation, and didn’t flinch as the man carefully dabbed sweet oil on his forehead, eyelids, ears, hands and, kneeling, on his feet. He’d done this before.
They’d both done this before. They would keep doing it, John said, until it was right. Until it was perfect.
Until he was clean.
“Get in the tub,” John said, and he went.
Climbing in, the cold slapped against his skin like a blow. He shivered a little, deep down in his bones. Sometimes he thought the sound would be audible, like wind chimes ringing under his skin. His toes curled in and he paused, just for a moment, before lowering himself to his knees.
“This won’t hurt,” John said, and a heavy hand dropped on his head.
“Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” John murmured.
He shut his eyes but otherwise didn’t move, as John cupped water in his hands and poured it carefully over his head. It sluiced down his face, the back of his neck, the curve of his spine. Clear water like moments in time, shivering briefly on his skin before fading away.
Imprints like bruises.
He didn’t have any bruises.
He was going to be strong.
______________________________
Sam paced the length and breadth of the little room. An abandoned motel off a little-used highway was a far cry from the civilized comfort of the apartment he’d lived in for the past eighteen months. Sam reflected ruefully that it really was impossible to get away from your roots. Dean had at least had the foresight to provide bedrolls, and candles and two camp lanterns were spread around the room, on the floor and windowsills and the broken table and wrecked chairs. The dust-filled curtains were thrown wide to allow as much of the fading daylight in as possible.
“He can’t track us if we don’t leave a trail,” Dean was saying as he wedged a rock in front of the door, leaving it propped open and allowing the fresh air to blow out some of the mildew stench.
“We might have to ditch the car,” Sam said, and Dean shook his head. Smiled a little, the way he sometimes did. That wistful little smile with the downcast eyes.
“Sam. Come on, man.”
Sam spread his hands. “Sorry. It just…maybe you should’ve, y’know. Not come back. Left me there.”
Dean cut his eyes in his direction, lips thin. “Left you. And, what, let him find you? Hang around, watch you get in trouble? Get punished?”
Sam slumped a little, leaned against the wall and rubbed at his forehead. A headache was unfurling slowly behind his eyes.
“Sorry. I know, you’re right. Sorry.”
Dean snorted, waved a dismissing hand.
Sam slid down the wall and hit the floor with a soft thump.
“How far are we going to run, Dean? I mean really? Past the Rockies, the Mississippi? To the other end of the continent?”
“If that’s what it takes.” Dean caught his pinched expression and sighed, shook his head. “I know, I know. It’s bad. Just-we just need a little time, to put some distance between us and John. We can regroup, catch our breath. Make a plan. It’s gonna be fine, kiddo, okay? I promise.”
Sam lifted his head, offered a wan smile.
They ate jerky and Doritos for dinner, sitting outside on the stoop with their legs stretched out, watching the birds flit in and out of the trees surrounding the empty property.
“So how was it?” Dean asked at one point, brushing orange dust from his hands. “Life on your own, I mean. California, gotta be expensive.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s been-it was good. I guess it was expensive but, y’know, I can live cheap, and I was working so-”
“What, like a job?”
Sam smacked him on the arm. “Don’t sound so surprised, jerk. Yes a job, and I paid taxes too. Shopped at the grocery and everything. The big one, I mean, not the one on the corner by the liquor store.”
Dean smirked and shook his head a little. “Stupidest things make you happy, Sam,” he muttered, and shoved a hand against Sam’s head, pushing him away. Sam whacked him in the ribs.
“I really did try, kiddo,” Dean continued, suddenly serious. Sam drew back, pressed his hands together. “Tried to-you know. Keep him busy. Help out with…things. I’m not much of…I’m not what John wanted though. Never been much of a hunter, or a soldier.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Dean…”
“I’m not. I’m just…I never have been. You know that. And I can only do so much. It’s, uh….” He picked at the skin around a fingernail, “It’s not really that big a surprise…I was gonna screw up eventually. Guess it was only a matter of time.”
“Hey,” Sam said firmly. “Dean look I-I know you did your best.” He paused, then repeated, more quietly, “I know you did.”
Dean drew a deep breath and looked away, to the tops of the trees nodding green heads in the soft breeze. The sun glanced off his hair and Sam realized with a start that it was short again, almost brutally so, in sharp contrast to the softness of his face, the gentle crinkling around his eyes. It didn’t suit him, Sam thought. Made his profile something strange, almost alien. Made something in Sam’s stomach squeeze, cold and tight.
“Yeah,” Dean was saying eyes still fixed on the trees, and the blue sky above. “Yeah, kiddo, I really did.”
______________________________
Dean let his fingers rest lightly on his belly. The skin and muscle gave way under the pressure like softened wax. This feeling was familiar, this lightness in his gut and chest, the heaviness everywhere else. The nausea had come and gone days ago, at least, and he could breathe and swallow saliva without battling the need to curl around his hollow insides, fighting his gag reflex. Dad would let him eat when it was time. When he was ready. He just needed to be patient.
“Soldiers have to be tough, son,” Dad had said. “Have to keep going no matter what.”
Three-day hunger made the darkness in the room he shared with Sam heavier, almost palpable, clinging to the walls like dusty velvet. His eyes were bleared and sticky, and he struggled to keep them open. But something had woken him, and he flicked his gaze over the walls and ceiling before he remembered belatedly to look to the door. To the shadow hulking there, backlit by cool grey light.
Dad said, “Don’t wake your brother.”
He slid out of the bed. The floor was cold on his feet and blood and water sloshed around his head, tipping the walls to the side, tilting the ceiling until it nearly touched the floor. He swallowed the saliva pooling along his teeth, the taste metallic. Pushed it away.
“Come on, Dean.” Dad gestured toward the door.
He paced barefoot across the floor, and pulled the door shut quietly.
“Get your shoes on and come outside,” Dad murmured.
He followed the huge shadow-shape out under the stars. Spring constellations. The air was cool and there was a body on the ground next to the back stairs, lying on a tarp thrown across dry grass, washed in artificial light. Eyes stared huge and empty into oblivion. He paused on the last step.
“Dean,” John urged, from his position near the corpse, speaking gently. Patiently. “Come on, son. This is important.”
He drew up closer to the body, hesitant in spite of himself. John had been hunting a werewolf, he knew. He must have caught up to it, brought it back to the house. To further Dean’s education. He hadn’t brought a knife, but he knew Dad would provide one. John Winchester always had a knife.
The body looked like a man, limbs flaccid with the weight of death, decay already settling. Dean recognized the peculiar stillness to the face, the sunkenness of muscles and skin, which sleep could not mimic.
The air was blue, dark blue. The skin of the body was pale. Naked. The last time Dean had cut up a body he’d been about nine, he was pretty sure. He might have cried, then, or at least tried to. Sometimes it came to him in moments, flashes of blood and warmth and flesh like sticky clay. Big hands across his face. There were dark places for those things, though. Shifting walls and black holes, and he was going to be a good soldier. A good soldier. He knew how to hide, and especially how to keep away from things that could slow him down.
When his father pushed him to his knees and pressed a knife into his hands, he licked his lips and blinked rapidly.
“Open ’er up,” John instructed.
Dean’s grip was weak, clumsy with deprivation. But he managed a slow and careful incision from throat to crotch. The skin gave way like softened wax, and blood leaked cold and thick around the blade. Viscera glistened in the artificial light.
He wasn’t hungry. The hollowness inside filled with noise like the buzzing of flies. He was full of dead things. His guts were like these, purple and bruised and slack.
His mouth was full of spit. Sickness was collecting in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down.
He had to keep separate from these things.
“You need to know this, Dean,” John was saying, somewhere, his voice shimmering in the reflection of light in curdled yellow fat, and grey intestines. “It’s important for you to know how to do this. Monsters are everywhere. You can’t afford to be scared.”
He let his hand keep cutting.
It wasn’t his hand anyway.
Sometimes things just happened.
______________________________
When Sam heard the clatter of his brother scrambling across the floor into the empty bathroom, he sat up sharply and flung the blanket off his legs.
No no no not now, not now, oh fuck…
He heard the noise Dean made in the bathroom, which was stripped of all fixtures and littered with bits of rubble, dust, and broken tiles. It was one of the old sounds, the ones without words, the ones Sam, living in California for over two years, had hoped to never hear again.
Sam’s second roommate after he settled in Palo Alto had been a sleepwalker. Dealing with Dean when he was…like this…had made putting up with the sleepwalking seem like child’s play.
“Dean!” He headed his brother off as he came stumbling out of the black maw of the doorway, caught his arms to steady him and then quickly backed off. There was always a chance Dean would take a swing at him, or worse. Dean had kicked him in the balls, once, several years ago, although afterward Sam was never sure if it had been intentional or not. Either way, it was better to back off at least until Dean had time to calm down a little on his own.
It was hard to be sure, though, if that was going to happen this time.
Dean was fumbling his way along the walls, movements jerky and frantic in the moonlight pouring through the open window. His mouth was slightly open and Sam could hear him making small wounded noises, and after a few long moments he leaned one shoulder heavily on the wall and gulped a ragged breath that was very near a sob. Sam slid a little closer, reaching out a hand, lightly touching his brother’s arm.
“Hey,” he tried, gently, “Hey.”
“Dad,” Dean breathed, and Sam closed his eyes briefly.
It never really got any easier.
“Where,” Dean began, then broke off and shook his head. Pushed away and stumbled toward the door. His motions were clumsy, as if his body didn’t belong to him.
“Dean!” Sam lunged after him but Dean already had the door open and was slipping through it. Sam flung it wide and came up short, inches from his brother’s back, as Dean stared out at the cracked parking lot and the trees whispering in the night breeze.
“Dad?” Dean whispered, and Sam got both hands on his shoulders.
“Come back inside,” he said gently, tugging lightly. “Come inside. It’s dark, Dean.”
“I don’t…” Dean shook his head, slowly, and Sam was reminded again of his sleepwalking friend. He tightened his grip on his brother, tugged a little in the direction of the open door.
“I don’t understand,” Dean said, words slow and cracked around the edges. He looked at Sam briefly, eyes miserable and wide.
“Come back inside,” Sam said softly. “Please, Dean.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sam pulled him inside and closed the door carefully. “I know. I know you don’t. Just…here.” He helped his brother find the bedroll and blanket and Dean sat down heavily, hands drifting loosely in the air. He shut his eyes and opened them again, and looked out the window.
“I’m going to just…hang on.” Sam reached for the nearest lantern and clicked it on, then fumbled around for a lighter and began lighting candles. Dean watched, mesmerized, and Sam tried to ignore the way the firelight reflected in his eyes.
“Dad,” Dean said again, worrying one hand against the other, “He…he was yelling…” he trailed off and looked away, then back again at the fire. “He said to run…he said run.”
“Shh,” Sam murmured, ignoring the way his gut clenched at the gentle admonition, the way it felt like a betrayal.
“He said to run away and…hide.” Dean’s voice was distant, hollow. He was looking at something a long way off, eyes no longer fixed on the candle. Sam shivered a little. Dean half-closed his eyes and slowly turned his head from side to side, as if listening, as if he were tracking some distant noise. “Take your brother. Take your brother outside and don’t look back.”
“Shh,” Sam said again, setting the last candle down, unable to look him in the face. “Dean.”
“He said-”
“Dad’s not here, Dean.” Sam’s voice cut into his brother’s monologue and Dean’s mouth quivered, and hung open slightly. His throat worked as he tried to swallow without shutting it, and he rocked his upper body slightly and looked away, toward the wall where the firelight flickered. His eyes remained wide open, unblinking, and Sam’s own pricked in sympathy. He didn’t move any closer, though. That would be distracting, would just wind up making things worse.
Wherever Dean had gone, whatever he was looking at, he’d come back eventually. He always did.
Dean shut his eyes, completely, and went on rocking a little, his hands open and loose in his lap. His lips moved, but Sam couldn’t catch the words he whispered, the sound dry like the rustle of wings or fingers brushing against a wall. Whatever they were seemed to work, at any rate, and he stilled his movement by degrees, shoulders losing their tenseness, face relaxing gradually. In his lap his hands opened and closed and he drew one long careful breath through his nose, then another, blew them out through his mouth and then opened his eyes. His gaze swung back to Sam and for a moment his expression was flat, was something Sam didn’t recognize. The candlelight spilled across his face and Sam found himself wishing, wildly, for the shadows to come back, to swallow his brother’s features the way they had done when they were children.
“Hey,” Dean said, voice smooth and gentle and strong. “Sammy. Hey.”
Sam met his gaze, briefly, and caught the small smile that flickered across Dean’s mouth, the gentle crinkle around his eyes. The candle flame shone in his irises, his pupils.
Sam looked away, to the wall and then to the candle he was still holding in his hand. With care he reached up and set it on the dust-covered three-legged table where the camp lantern sat. He pulled his fingers away but didn’t look back at Dean.
His brother said, “Hey. It’s okay. It’s gonna be just fine.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, watching a bead of wax melt into a line down the side of the candle, eyes watering because he couldn’t seem to blink or look away. “Yeah, it is.”
______________________________
John said, “No. No, you can’t get up.”
John was the problem. John was big and cold and implacable and it was impossible to fight him. He didn’t have the strength to fight the man, or to protect Sammy. It was his job, but he couldn’t do it. Not like this. John was too strong. Struggling didn’t help.
John said, “No,” again, and his hand was huge over his face, pinching his nose, covering his mouth.
Sammy was sick. Sammy needed him.
“He doesn’t need you, Dean. You have to let this thing go. You’re a soldier. That’s your duty. You can’t let emotion slow you down.”
He struggled, grabbed John’s hand in both of his own, tried to wrench it off his face.
“Let it go, son.”
His eyes rolled in his head. His chest, his ribs jerked and struggled to contract, to draw in air. Sam was in the bed, Sam was sick, he needed someone to take care of him. John couldn’t do it. John didn’t know how.
“Calm down,” John was murmuring, from some distance away. Darkness clanged at the edges of his vision, battered at his ears. He scrabbled at John’s skin, nails tearing violently, but the man was implacable. Watched him with curious eyes as his whole body jerked, arching backwards, desperate for oxygen.
“Settle down.” John’s voice was blurry and thick. “You’re better than this, Dean. Be a soldier. Act like a soldier. I’ve given you an order.”
Orders weren’t for him. Soldiers followed orders and he wasn’t a soldier. It wasn’t his job. Sammy was his job.
But it was too late, too dark. He wasn’t strong enough to fight John.
Someone else could follow these orders.
He let go, and fell into the dark.
______________________________
When Sam woke up again the sun was burning through the window and Dean was standing in the doorway with a cellphone in his hand. He looked a little shell-shocked, as if he’d been smacked in the face and still couldn’t quite believe it.
“What?” Sam asked, and Dean’s eyes flicked to him.
“The fuck is this shit?” he demanded, his voice a low, ragged growl. Both hands were fists. Sam’s skin went cold. Flash-frozen.
“Dean?”
“I am not fucking around, Sam.” Dean strode into the room and Sam backpedalled hurriedly, scrambling out of the mess of blankets and hoisting himself up the nearest wall. “Not fucking playing with you.”
“What are you-”
“John called.” Dean waved the phone under Sam’s nose and repeated, “John called. He wants to know where the fuck I am.”
Sam swallowed, and kept his voice low.
“I didn’t bring you here, Dean.”
“He’s looking for me in Cali-fucking-fornia. Where I’m supposed to be.”
“You could go,” Sam said immediately, because the last thing he wanted was his brother’s fury directed at him. Dean’s voice was ugly and alien and Sam’s skin was trying to climb off his body. He flattened his hands against the smooth wall.
Sam’s immediate acquiescence seemed to surprise Dean, at least, and he rocked back a couple of steps, brow furrowing in the confusion that always accompanied this kind of anger. Sam had only been on the receiving end of it maybe two or three times in his entire life, and it always seemed to come from nowhere and disappear just as suddenly, leaving them both staggering and confused, Dean wracked with quiet horror. Sam wanted to slide along the wall, huddle on the other side of the little room. Dean was still too close, though.
He said, “I’m takin’ you back with me.”
Sam inhaled sharply. That had always been a risk. Dean was impossible to predict. The fact that he’d come for Sam was no guarantee he’d keep their father away indefinitely. This was the good soldier act making an unwanted appearance, probably thanks to the unexpected phone call from John.
Dammit. Damn it all to hell. He should’ve taken Dean’s phone.
“No, Dean.” Sam kept his voice as quiet as possible, though he already knew it wouldn’t help. “I’m not going back.”
Dean ducked his head, hunched his shoulders, whole posture aggressive.
“You wanna maybe rethink that,” he ground out. His voice like this had so little in common with his more familiar tones. It rasped, cruel and intimidating. He moved a little closer and pushed a hand into Sam’s hair, twisted a brown lock around one finger and cocked his head, staring at it as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
“You know John’s been looking for you for a long time. Hell of a long time. Kept asking me. Like I was supposed to know where the fuck you were hiding. Chickenshit.”
Sam kept his head very still, and his lips were stiff, but he managed to force the words out.
“I’m not going back.”
Dean curled his hand into a fist, trapping Sam’s hair, forcing him to lean down toward his brother, head tilted awkwardly.
“Sam.” His voice was full of warning.
Sam swallowed, throat dry.
“No, Dean.”
He was expecting the light slap to the side of his face, and the little shake his brother gave him, curling strong fingers around his jaw, forcing his mouth slightly open. It didn’t hurt, though, and Sam shook his head a little and forced himself to meet Dean’s flat, half-lidded gaze.
“I’m not going back. Dean, please.”
“You shit.” And this time, knowing it was coming didn’t help. Sam flinched anyway, and the blow bounced his head off the wall and smacked hard pain across his skull and behind his eyes.
“Why the fuck are you so stupid, Jesus-”
Dean hit him again, fist balled up and ramming into Sam’s temple, knocking him to the floor. Lights and noise crashed inside his skull and he curled up, shielding his head, gasping. Dean slammed a foot against his side and Sam dropped his arms and took the kick, hard. Shit. It hurt, muscle buckling, smacking against the bone. He scrabbled backward with one hand, kicking his legs on the floor, even as he curled in tighter on himself. Stop it, don’t hit me, fuck, stop it, stop. Dean snarled and grabbed for Sam’s head, wrenching his arm clear, shaking him by the hair. Sam grit his teeth, flung a hand at his brother and Dean slapped it away and hit him again, across the face, knuckles mashing his lip into his teeth. Warmth erupted across his mouth, over his chin.
“Where the fuck do you get off running away who told you it was okay you fucker you fucker-” Dean’s voice tore on the words and he punctuated his tirade with hard slaps to Sam’s face, slamming him down on the dusty carpet again, cracking the side of his fist against Sam’s ear until he cried out.
“Dean stop! Please! I’m sorry, I’m-”
“Shut up, shut up, God you stupid fuck I don’t know why I ever put up with you…”
Sam heaved out a sob and struggled away from his brother, dragging himself across the carpet toward the bathroom door. Blood ran down his face, and tears, and snot. He gulped back another sob, clawing it down into the hollowness inside his chest. Dean might kill him. He didn’t want to die.
Oh God, I don’t want to die.
Dean could have stopped him from crawling away. Maybe he was going to. Maybe he wanted to. But somehow Sam reached the bathroom, scrabbling through his mind for some words, for some protection, something strong enough to save him. Save them both. Somehow. Something from Dad, maybe. Something Dean would hear, something he’d listen to.
The Lord is my shepherd, the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not
He hauled himself into the little room, fingers and palms pressed into the floor. Not because he thought it would be safe, but because there was nowhere else to go. He kicked the door closed as best he could but it didn’t shut completely.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” he whispered, wiping at his face, at the blood and saliva and tears. “The Lord is my, my shepherd I shall not be in want.” He could hear footsteps pacing across the carpet outside. He cringed, and pressed himself into the far corner of the little, blasted-out room full of dust and rubble, curling up and burying his face in his arms, his hands fisted against his head. He couldn’t remember the rest of the psalm. All he could hear was the heavy tread of boots, drawing closer, and the noise in his head, the hard pain in his skull. The words wouldn’t come. His mouth hurt, and his jaw, and the side of his head. Hurt.
He doubled back, regrouped. Whispered, “Give us this-”No, no. “Our Father. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy n-name-” Thy kingdom come
The door opened. He felt the rush of air sweep across the floor, and he flinched and curled up tighter, hands crushed to his head.
Thy kingdom come thy kingdom
For thine is the
kingdom
“Give us this day our daily bread,” he pushed out desperately, words tripping on words, “Give us this day-and and and…”
forgive us
“…forgive us our trespasses, shbwoqan l’khayyabayn, forgive us as we forgive-”
for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory
“-sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris forgive wela tahlan l’nesyuna-”
The footsteps drew closer, and stopped. Sam’s skin burned, and he knew what he was waiting for. But….
forgive
But the fist in his hair didn’t come, and the shaking didn’t come. Instead a gentle palm found the back of his skull, and another cupped the side of his head.
for ever and ever
“L'ahlam almin,” Sam gasped, and looked up into Dean’s wide, horrified eyes.
Amen.
“Jesus, Sammy,” his big brother whispered, hauling Sam in, wrapping him up in powerful arms. “Holy Christ.”
Forever and ever, Sam didn’t say, but grabbed onto his big brother and pushed desperately into his space with a little broken noise. Dean, who was whispering to him the way he’d done when they were children. Small, soft words. Infinitely gentle. Hand on the back of Sam’s head, carefully combing through his hair.
“Okay now,” Dean breathed, almost sing-song, voice trembling slightly, “You’re okay, kiddo. Settle down. Settle down. You’re gonna be all right.”
Sam shuddered, and nodded against his brother’s shoulder.
Eventually Dean pushed him back, a little, and wiped at Sam’s face with one hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
Sam nodded mutely, and let his brother shove an arm under his shoulders and half-drag him through the room and out onto the stoop, into the brilliant morning sun. Didn’t protest when Dean turned his face toward the light, or wince when his brother left and returned with alcohol and rags, and began to carefully clean his face.
“Jesus, what a mess, what a godawful mess,” Dean murmured as he worked, and his was voice back to the timbre Sam remembered best, loved best-quiet and honey-warm, resonant and smooth. A little soft around the edges, but steady and strong.
Sam shivered, deep down in his bones.
It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine.
______________________________
Bright and screaming. The night, the walls. Light in Sammy’s room filling up the hallway, filling everything. The whole world. A high voice screaming. Animals maybe, angry and tearing. Like something hurt, or dying the way birds died, screaming the way a baby would scream.
Or something else.
Light flickered at the edge of his vision.
“Dean!”
A heavy weight was shoved into his arms. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t really. His chest hurt, and his eyes burned in the light. Bright and loud and it hurt his ears. Someone screaming, some animal and Sammy crying.
“Take your brother.”
Sammy was so heavy.
“Dean!”
Big and loud, huge and bright. Empty. Empty like the sky. Screaming things pushing on his head. On the walls. Pushing back the walls. Fire.
A light.
“Take your brother! Take your brother outside and don’t look back!”
Run and hide.
It was too bright. Too open. Big and bright. Huge and open, empty. No light. No noise. No screamingscreaming. No. No.
No.
He ran and didn’t fall. Sammy didn’t fall. The light didn’t follow him and the roaring screaming noise faded as he clattered down the stairs and out the door and his chest and legs and arms hurt. He spun and looked back at the light and there was no one, no one, just the light in the window and the huge night spinning away, the stars and the tree overhead spreading silent branches.
His breath was short and his head was light. Everything was far away. Happening far away. Huge hands grabbed him up and carried him and a noise like someone shouting split open the dark, smacked him on both sides of his head, swallowed up every sound. He couldn’t hear Sammy. Couldn’t hear anything at all.
It was dark and quiet and bright and loud and and and
Everything
All together all at once
Screaming
Where was
Where
“Dean,” barked a voice, and big hands shook him and he looked up into a shadowy face and he could see the sky behind it, black and full of stars. Tiny and distant.
“Hold on to your brother, son,” Dad’s voice rumbled, and Dean tightened his grip on the little bundle. Everything was still spinning and far away and opened-up-wide but Sammy wasn’t crying anymore. Was making a baby noise and Dean looked down, then up, then turned to look back at the house burning like a candle, burning. Fire. Fire. Fire.
“You look after Sammy, now. You do that, Dean.”
He nodded, even though his head felt far away. Was strange. Gone away, maybe. Full of black and stars. But he nodded and a kind of quiet came up, then, from somewhere in his chest or maybe from outside. Quiet and still. He had a job. He had a job.
Take care of Sammy.
His legs folded up and he curled himself down, a little, over Sammy. Protecting him from the light, from the big black sky.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmured, and rocked them both very gently. “It’s all gonna be okay.”
-End-
________________________________________________________________________
Notes:
1) I made an effort here to approach this subject in a way that a) hadn’t been done before, and b) relied as little as possible on standard narrative conventions and popular conceptions of MID/DID. I’m not really looking to get into a debate re: the veracity of DID (versus other dissociative disorders, which as far as I know are not in question in the psychiatric community) or its representation here. I will say, though, that I’ve read material on the subject which then went on later to be established as more or less fallacious, or at least questionable. So I wasn’t really interested in following the set patterns because I think they represent an oversimplification of the nature of human consciousness and dissociative disorders in general. Others may disagree, which is their prerogative.
2) I’ve read a few fics dealing with MID/DID in which the alters are basically static, and exist more as set pieces than as parts of a psyche. For this fic I wanted to explore the ways in which alters could actually exist as part of a system which evolved organically to help a psyche cope with a dangerous and challenging situation.
One of my biggest concerns was avoiding caricaturizing the alters. A lot of the material I wrote and discarded did exactly that.
3) When I was preparing to write this I toyed with the question of whether or not this would be set in a reality where monsters, ghosts, demons, etc., exist. Ultimately I didn’t make a conscious decision regarding it, but it became necessary to represent John as being at the very least dangerously psychotic/delusional. This suggests that the monsters don’t exist, which makes me wonder if John, in this reality, is a killer…it’s a possibility. It also sort of suggests some things about his sons….
4) I tried hard to explore the impact that the sort of childhood that would lead to the development of a severe dissociative disorder would have on a sibling, which is the reason so much material is given to Sam here. I kind of think Sam is just about as screwed up as Dean+alters here, in his own way. Poor guys. There’s no way either of them were getting out unscathed.
5) The verse comes from W.H. Auden’s The Two, which will be immediately recognizable to anyone who’s read Watership Down. I hadn’t actually seen more of the poem than the part that appears in Adams’ book, but it was in the back of my mind as I worked on this, so I went and looked it up, and it was sufficiently creepy. The subject matter is different, but it seemed like it fit well enough, so….
________________________________________________________________________
I've posted most of the original draftwork that I later discarded, for anyone who is crazy enough to want to see what the writing process on this was like--and why this version looks the way it does.
Find it here.
________________________________________________________________________
Summary: A fill for a request some months back for MID/DID fic by katsuyakaiba69.
Warnings: ABUSE. Violence, blood, gore, disturbing imagery.
Note: This will not read like, or resemble, other MID/DID fics or fictionalized accounts. Please see additional notes at the end for an explanation.
This story is brought to you by our sponsors salty_catfish and hokuton_punch, without whom this thing never would have seen the light of day. All praise and kudos to them!
Run and Hide
______________________________
You are the town and we are the clock.
We are the guardians of the gate in the rock
The Two
On your left and on your right
In the day and in the night,
We are watching you.
-W. H. Auden
______________________________
Sam stayed in the dark. His frame was too big, really, limbs too awkward and unwieldy for the small space, but he did his best. Outside a woman was hollering in a language he didn’t understand, and kids were shrieking in the courtyard. The occasional siren and crying baby added to the general cacophony. Sam, huddled in the tiny apartment’s tinier closet, could barely make out any of it. The outside world was nothing but a blurry cloud of distant noise.
He curled in on himself, resting his forehead on his knees and letting his hands curl loosely against his chest. His hair fell around his face. He’d never got around to cutting it. He listened to the sound of his breath, the only distinct noise in the little space.
Once, the sound had been doubled.
Dean, Sam knew, had never really enjoyed it much, all the stints they’d done as kids stuffed into closets and cupboards for indefinite periods of time. (“You boys stay inside until I tell you it’s safe.”) He’d born it stoically, though, and Sam was pretty sure it’d mostly been for his sake. He’d wondered, once or twice, if Dean would’ve gone along with their father’s orders so quickly if Sam hadn’t been there. (“No sounds, Sammy.”) If he hadn’t needed a big brother to look out for him.
Those were the kinds of questions Sam usually tried not to think about too deeply. He had early memories of curling into Dean’s side in the quiet dark while his brother rocked them both gently and sang songs with made-up words, sometimes in English, sometimes in the stranger idioms they heard their father muttering in the night. Even years later, when he’d learned the reason for all the time spent in small spaces-not only closets but inside cupboards and under sinks and beds and, on one memorable occasion, squeezed into an oven-he couldn’t find it in himself to be terrified.
“Shh. S’okay, Sammy. It’s gonna be okay.”
“It’s dark, Dean.”
“I know, kiddo.”
He could still, if he closed his eyes, call up a phantom sensation of Dean’s arms around his shoulders, squeezing so tightly he left marks on his skin which were visible the next day. He could feel the warmth that settled between them and the feeling of Dean’s chin resting on top of his head.
“When can we come out?”
“When it’s safe.”
“When will it be safe?”
“When Dad says so. When he gets back.”
Sam had been six when Dean had finally told him the truth. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been in the closet of that week’s motel room, silent and clinging to each other, listening out for their father’s return. Sam’s heart beat loudly in his chest and head, in the space between himself and his brother. He might have fallen asleep, actually, because when Dean moved unexpectedly Sam started and his head was full of achy fog, his eyes sticky.
Dean had said, “Sam,” and pushed him away a little bit. Just a little, and an uneasy feeling swept over Sam, but then he realized Dean was only taking a moment to draw a deep, shuddering breath and pass a hand across his face. At ten he’d seemed so large. Had filled up Sam’s world.
Dean, who took care of him.
“Sammy there’s…there’s something I need to tell you, okay? About this, about,” he paused to wave a hand around, encompassing most of their lives in that simple gesture. “About all of this.”
Sam nodded. Dean’s face was a mess of shadows, was nothing Sam could recognize.
“Sammy, listen.” Dean kept his voice low and serious, so that there would be no way for Sam to misunderstand his words as some kind of joke.
“Kiddo,” he’d said, “Monsters are real.”
When their Dad came and let them out the next day, Sam’s limbs were stiff and aching, and the little space stank. Dean, Sam recalled, had tried to get their Dad to leave them a bowl or something, but had been overridden and rushed into the closet too quickly.
Sam was an adult now, though. Didn’t have to worry about staying inside. About pissing himself. Didn’t have to sit in closets at all, and if Dean were here he’d probably tell Sam in no uncertain terms what he thought of his grown-ass little brother hanging around in a closet when he didn’t have to. When the whole reason he’d sent Sam away was to make sure he’d never have to again. Dean would frown and look worried and say “Why you doin’ this to yourself, kiddo?” and Sam would shrug and mumble and promise not to do it again.
But Dean wasn’t here. He’d sent Sam away. Packed him up and shipped him out into the world. So now Sam curled in on himself as much as possible and shut his eyes, and pulled from deep inside the memory of his brother’s heartbeat. Between himself and the wall he could almost feel Dean’s breath, and the ghost of his brother’s fingers rested on his shoulders and gently smoothed his hair.
Dean would be okay. When Sam left, he had promised to be okay.
______________________________
Sometimes Dad talked about fire.
Dean wasn’t sure why. Dad got upset, sometimes, and then he was big and loud and sharp. He didn’t talk to Dean when he was like that, or to Sammy either. His voice made Dean shiver, made it cold inside. When that happened Dean went and sat with Sammy, and ran his hand over his baby hair, again and again. It was soft and stuck to his hand a little, all staticky. Sometimes Sammy cried, especially when Dad was loud, but right now he was quiet and Dad was in the other room. Dean could hear the low murmur of his voice. He wasn’t really upset. Just looking at the papers and cutting things out.
Dean wanted to know about the pictures pinned to the walls, and the papers Dad kept piled up by the door and in the kitchen. He didn’t ask, though. He thought about it a lot but the words, like most words, stayed where they were in his mouth and throat and belly. They hurt a little bit on the way out, sharp like broken things, catching and grating on his skin. Mostly he kept them inside.
Dad didn’t like it when Dean didn’t talk, but most of the time he didn’t really seem to notice. Dean was glad about that.
Right now he was happy where he was, sitting in the room with his brother. He pulled Sammy up from the rug where he was playing and into his lap, and petted him a little. Sammy burbled and made baby noises. He was kind of a noisy baby, but Dean thought he’d be able to teach him to be quiet. Being quiet was important, and Sammy was smart. Dad said so a lot.
Sammy was special.
When Dad came in the room after a while, he picked up Sammy and set him carefully in his crib.
Dad said some words Dean didn’t know, and smiled a kind of crooked smile. The way he did a lot now. Dean tried to stand up a little straighter when Dad looked at him.
“Hey there Deano.” He was still smiling, and Dean smiled too. “You like hangin’ out with Sammy, huh?”
Dean nodded, and when he did Dad’s smile faded, a little. Dean watched him and was careful not to back up. Didn’t turn his head or look away.
“Hey.” Dad got down on one knee and rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder. His hands were really big. “Hey, son, I need you to answer me. When I ask a question.”
Dean nodded again, more sharply this time, and Dad’s brow furrowed. The smile was gone, now. Dean didn’t look around, or think about the air, or the light coming in the window, or the dry noise that wasn’t a noise like whispers, or like fingers brushing against walls. The sides of his head were hot. Behind his forehead, above his ears. Hot and tight.
“Son,” Dad said in a low, firm tone, “When I ask you a question, you answer me. Understand?”
Dean started to open his mouth, a little, and a big hand wrapped around the bottom of his jaw and fingers curled into the space above his teeth, pushing the skin in. Dean’s shoulders and neck tightened, belly trembling a little. The sides of his head squeezed.
“Dean,” Dad said, words as soft as Sammy’s hair.
There was spit in Dean’s mouth. He couldn’t swallow because his jaw was being forced open. Sharpness dug in at his shoulder and into the skin of his face where Dad’s fingers pushed.
His breath came short and light. The walls were hot, and pushing on him.
“You say ‘yessir,’ boy.”
There was a big open space. Space for words and for something else. For a bright light and a furious animal roaring. And screaming. He pulled back from it, from the light and noise. A high voice screaming the way it did sometimes at night, crawling around the edges of the walls and up and down the doorway. He was pulling back as far as he could. Into the open place.
His mouth worked a little. Dad wasn’t hurting him.
Light flickered at the edge of his vision.
Sometimes Dad talked about fire, but Dean wasn’t sure why.
“Say ‘yessir’.”
Dean’s tongue pushed across his teeth. They were small, and rough. Far away. There was an open space, inside or maybe outside. Huge and empty.
“’ss…”
“Dean.”
Far away. Like spinning around and around and then stopping and the world going on. Dizzy and wide open.
“ss-s-si…”
A light. Bright and loud. Or an open space. Huge and open, empty. No light. No noise. No screamingscreaming. No. No.
Open.
Take your brother
Dean!
Say ‘yessir’
Dad’s smile.
“Yessir.”
Someone said, “Yessir.”
A light.
“Yessir.”
Dad wasn’t hurting him.
Someone said, “Yessir.”
______________________________
Sam slapped out blindly in the dark, and the figure looming over his bed cursed softly and stumbled backward. There was a noise of a heavy body smacking into the table, the crash of a water glass hitting the floor. Sam sat up, shoving his hair out of his face with one slightly trembling hand.
“Dean?”
“Ow,” his brother hissed. The noise of fumbling in the dark cut off abruptly when the lamp clicked on, and Sam stared up at his big brother, squinting in the sudden glare. Dean’s face was drawn, distressed, mouth pressed tight and eyes wide. He stared at Sam wordlessly for a moment, blinking rapidly in the light.
“Dean,” Sam breathed, “Jesus.”
Dean jerked at the sound of Sam’s voice and stepped back quickly toward the closet. Sam stared after him. If this was intended as some kind of reunion, it was a piss-poor one. His brother was hauling Sam’s largest duffle from the closet, and he flinched when Dean flung it across his legs. He’d expected at least a greeting. A quiet, “Hey, Sammy.” Something.
“Get your things, Sam. Now. We gotta go.”
“What-” Sam struggled to untangle himself from the confines of the bedcovers, and the heavy bag slid to the floor with a muffled thump. Dean grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet, grip almost painful, and started throwing clothes at him.
“Pack. Get your toothbrush. Come on, Sammy, we gotta be outta here like, yesterday.”
“Dean. Dean.” Sam grabbed up the bag and stumbled after his brother as he swept into the bathroom and grabbed up toiletries in a whirlwind of over-efficiency. “Why are you-two years, man! You said it was fine! Everything was fine! And now you-you just show up out of the-What in hell are you-”
Dean looked up, eyes wide. “Sammy, please. Would you just-it’s John, okay? He’s been looking for you.”
Sam froze.
“John’s been looking for you.” Dean repeated, drawing closer, lowering his voice. “I mean really looking. Like, he’s got a plan. A reason to find you. He’s in town right now. Sam.”
“What-I thought-” Sam reached out, grabbed the shaving kit and toothbrush from Dean’s hands and frantically stuffed them in the duffle. “Weren’t you with him? I thought you were with him!”
Dean made a noise somewhere between contempt and dismay. “No, I wasn’t with him. It’s not my-Christ Sammy. I just found out like, today. Now would you move your ass?”
“Jesus fuck.” And Sam was yanking clothes out of drawers and shoving them haphazardly in the bag. He couldn’t take much, he knew. And anything he left behind would be fair game for their father.
“How did he find me? How the hell did he even know-”
“John’s damn good hunter,” Dean said quietly. He was shifting from one foot to the other, anxious to be gone.
“Christ,” Sam muttered, yanking on jeans and shirts, grabbing his wallet and stuffing whatever important papers he could lay hands on into the duffle, ignoring the way they buckled and folded at the rough treatment. “Jesus H. fucking Christ.”
“Hell of a mouth you got on you there, kiddo.” Dean pushed out the door and cast a glance up and down the hall. Sam fell in behind him, letting his brother’s anxiety infect him and send them both hurrying down the stairs and out into the night, gracelessly tumbling into the interior of the Impala.
“He gave you the car?” Sam whispered, running a reverent hand along the dash. Dean bit his lip, eyes flickering.
“No,” he murmured, but offered no further explanation and Sam didn’t push. The engine screamed into life and Dean stomped on the gas with surprising violence. Sam flinched. Aggression didn’t suit Dean and he wondered if maybe it was the car lending sharpness to his gestures, tightening gentle hands and hardening the planes of his face.
They squealed away from the apartment building and into the night, heading east. As far away from John as they could practically manage. There was no need for discussion. Sam had been running for a long time.
After about half an hour of almost perfect silence, Sam shifted around in his seat, biting his lip briefly and casting a quick glance at his brother.
“You wanna let me know how this happened, Dean?”
Dean drew a long breath.
“What do you want me to say, Sammy? I did my best, okay?”
“You blew it, you mean! You said you’d stay with him, keep him off my trail.”
“I did. You know I did. For-for a long time.”
Sam folded his arms. “Then what happened?”
“I don’t-” Dean shook his head sharply. “I don’t know, okay? It just-I wasn’t with him, okay, and when I caught up again he was already in California. I did the-the best I could, Sam. To slow him down until I could get to you.”
Sam realized he was holding his breath. He forced himself to exhale normally.
“He’s not going to-”
Dean shook his head again.
“No, okay? Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Sam nodded. He leaned back in the seat, pulled his jacket a little more tightly around himself, and tried to relax.
______________________________
The stained and battered bathtub was filled with cold water, still as a deep well in the little room. He knew better than to touch the water, knew that moving from this spot would do nothing but get him into trouble. He remained standing between the door and the mirror, staring at the water that did not move, the shadows below its surface almost blue. Deep and silent. He knew it went down a long way. Much farther than the visible shallow depths.
Much, much farther.
He drew a quick breath, felt his ribs expand. He had a job to do here.
It would make him stronger. Help him protect Sammy.
John came in and closed the door softly. He had a small vial and cloth in hand, and he gave a quick jerk of his head. Said, “Get your clothes off.”
John knew about monsters. It was important to listen to John.
He stripped quickly, folded up his clothes and placed them carefully on the toilet seat. John nodded his approval.
“Come here.”
He drew closer in the small cold room without hesitation, and didn’t flinch as the man carefully dabbed sweet oil on his forehead, eyelids, ears, hands and, kneeling, on his feet. He’d done this before.
They’d both done this before. They would keep doing it, John said, until it was right. Until it was perfect.
Until he was clean.
“Get in the tub,” John said, and he went.
Climbing in, the cold slapped against his skin like a blow. He shivered a little, deep down in his bones. Sometimes he thought the sound would be audible, like wind chimes ringing under his skin. His toes curled in and he paused, just for a moment, before lowering himself to his knees.
“This won’t hurt,” John said, and a heavy hand dropped on his head.
“Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” John murmured.
He shut his eyes but otherwise didn’t move, as John cupped water in his hands and poured it carefully over his head. It sluiced down his face, the back of his neck, the curve of his spine. Clear water like moments in time, shivering briefly on his skin before fading away.
Imprints like bruises.
He didn’t have any bruises.
He was going to be strong.
______________________________
Sam paced the length and breadth of the little room. An abandoned motel off a little-used highway was a far cry from the civilized comfort of the apartment he’d lived in for the past eighteen months. Sam reflected ruefully that it really was impossible to get away from your roots. Dean had at least had the foresight to provide bedrolls, and candles and two camp lanterns were spread around the room, on the floor and windowsills and the broken table and wrecked chairs. The dust-filled curtains were thrown wide to allow as much of the fading daylight in as possible.
“He can’t track us if we don’t leave a trail,” Dean was saying as he wedged a rock in front of the door, leaving it propped open and allowing the fresh air to blow out some of the mildew stench.
“We might have to ditch the car,” Sam said, and Dean shook his head. Smiled a little, the way he sometimes did. That wistful little smile with the downcast eyes.
“Sam. Come on, man.”
Sam spread his hands. “Sorry. It just…maybe you should’ve, y’know. Not come back. Left me there.”
Dean cut his eyes in his direction, lips thin. “Left you. And, what, let him find you? Hang around, watch you get in trouble? Get punished?”
Sam slumped a little, leaned against the wall and rubbed at his forehead. A headache was unfurling slowly behind his eyes.
“Sorry. I know, you’re right. Sorry.”
Dean snorted, waved a dismissing hand.
Sam slid down the wall and hit the floor with a soft thump.
“How far are we going to run, Dean? I mean really? Past the Rockies, the Mississippi? To the other end of the continent?”
“If that’s what it takes.” Dean caught his pinched expression and sighed, shook his head. “I know, I know. It’s bad. Just-we just need a little time, to put some distance between us and John. We can regroup, catch our breath. Make a plan. It’s gonna be fine, kiddo, okay? I promise.”
Sam lifted his head, offered a wan smile.
They ate jerky and Doritos for dinner, sitting outside on the stoop with their legs stretched out, watching the birds flit in and out of the trees surrounding the empty property.
“So how was it?” Dean asked at one point, brushing orange dust from his hands. “Life on your own, I mean. California, gotta be expensive.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s been-it was good. I guess it was expensive but, y’know, I can live cheap, and I was working so-”
“What, like a job?”
Sam smacked him on the arm. “Don’t sound so surprised, jerk. Yes a job, and I paid taxes too. Shopped at the grocery and everything. The big one, I mean, not the one on the corner by the liquor store.”
Dean smirked and shook his head a little. “Stupidest things make you happy, Sam,” he muttered, and shoved a hand against Sam’s head, pushing him away. Sam whacked him in the ribs.
“I really did try, kiddo,” Dean continued, suddenly serious. Sam drew back, pressed his hands together. “Tried to-you know. Keep him busy. Help out with…things. I’m not much of…I’m not what John wanted though. Never been much of a hunter, or a soldier.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Dean…”
“I’m not. I’m just…I never have been. You know that. And I can only do so much. It’s, uh….” He picked at the skin around a fingernail, “It’s not really that big a surprise…I was gonna screw up eventually. Guess it was only a matter of time.”
“Hey,” Sam said firmly. “Dean look I-I know you did your best.” He paused, then repeated, more quietly, “I know you did.”
Dean drew a deep breath and looked away, to the tops of the trees nodding green heads in the soft breeze. The sun glanced off his hair and Sam realized with a start that it was short again, almost brutally so, in sharp contrast to the softness of his face, the gentle crinkling around his eyes. It didn’t suit him, Sam thought. Made his profile something strange, almost alien. Made something in Sam’s stomach squeeze, cold and tight.
“Yeah,” Dean was saying eyes still fixed on the trees, and the blue sky above. “Yeah, kiddo, I really did.”
______________________________
Dean let his fingers rest lightly on his belly. The skin and muscle gave way under the pressure like softened wax. This feeling was familiar, this lightness in his gut and chest, the heaviness everywhere else. The nausea had come and gone days ago, at least, and he could breathe and swallow saliva without battling the need to curl around his hollow insides, fighting his gag reflex. Dad would let him eat when it was time. When he was ready. He just needed to be patient.
“Soldiers have to be tough, son,” Dad had said. “Have to keep going no matter what.”
Three-day hunger made the darkness in the room he shared with Sam heavier, almost palpable, clinging to the walls like dusty velvet. His eyes were bleared and sticky, and he struggled to keep them open. But something had woken him, and he flicked his gaze over the walls and ceiling before he remembered belatedly to look to the door. To the shadow hulking there, backlit by cool grey light.
Dad said, “Don’t wake your brother.”
He slid out of the bed. The floor was cold on his feet and blood and water sloshed around his head, tipping the walls to the side, tilting the ceiling until it nearly touched the floor. He swallowed the saliva pooling along his teeth, the taste metallic. Pushed it away.
“Come on, Dean.” Dad gestured toward the door.
He paced barefoot across the floor, and pulled the door shut quietly.
“Get your shoes on and come outside,” Dad murmured.
He followed the huge shadow-shape out under the stars. Spring constellations. The air was cool and there was a body on the ground next to the back stairs, lying on a tarp thrown across dry grass, washed in artificial light. Eyes stared huge and empty into oblivion. He paused on the last step.
“Dean,” John urged, from his position near the corpse, speaking gently. Patiently. “Come on, son. This is important.”
He drew up closer to the body, hesitant in spite of himself. John had been hunting a werewolf, he knew. He must have caught up to it, brought it back to the house. To further Dean’s education. He hadn’t brought a knife, but he knew Dad would provide one. John Winchester always had a knife.
The body looked like a man, limbs flaccid with the weight of death, decay already settling. Dean recognized the peculiar stillness to the face, the sunkenness of muscles and skin, which sleep could not mimic.
The air was blue, dark blue. The skin of the body was pale. Naked. The last time Dean had cut up a body he’d been about nine, he was pretty sure. He might have cried, then, or at least tried to. Sometimes it came to him in moments, flashes of blood and warmth and flesh like sticky clay. Big hands across his face. There were dark places for those things, though. Shifting walls and black holes, and he was going to be a good soldier. A good soldier. He knew how to hide, and especially how to keep away from things that could slow him down.
When his father pushed him to his knees and pressed a knife into his hands, he licked his lips and blinked rapidly.
“Open ’er up,” John instructed.
Dean’s grip was weak, clumsy with deprivation. But he managed a slow and careful incision from throat to crotch. The skin gave way like softened wax, and blood leaked cold and thick around the blade. Viscera glistened in the artificial light.
He wasn’t hungry. The hollowness inside filled with noise like the buzzing of flies. He was full of dead things. His guts were like these, purple and bruised and slack.
His mouth was full of spit. Sickness was collecting in the back of his throat. He swallowed it down.
He had to keep separate from these things.
“You need to know this, Dean,” John was saying, somewhere, his voice shimmering in the reflection of light in curdled yellow fat, and grey intestines. “It’s important for you to know how to do this. Monsters are everywhere. You can’t afford to be scared.”
He let his hand keep cutting.
It wasn’t his hand anyway.
Sometimes things just happened.
______________________________
When Sam heard the clatter of his brother scrambling across the floor into the empty bathroom, he sat up sharply and flung the blanket off his legs.
No no no not now, not now, oh fuck…
He heard the noise Dean made in the bathroom, which was stripped of all fixtures and littered with bits of rubble, dust, and broken tiles. It was one of the old sounds, the ones without words, the ones Sam, living in California for over two years, had hoped to never hear again.
Sam’s second roommate after he settled in Palo Alto had been a sleepwalker. Dealing with Dean when he was…like this…had made putting up with the sleepwalking seem like child’s play.
“Dean!” He headed his brother off as he came stumbling out of the black maw of the doorway, caught his arms to steady him and then quickly backed off. There was always a chance Dean would take a swing at him, or worse. Dean had kicked him in the balls, once, several years ago, although afterward Sam was never sure if it had been intentional or not. Either way, it was better to back off at least until Dean had time to calm down a little on his own.
It was hard to be sure, though, if that was going to happen this time.
Dean was fumbling his way along the walls, movements jerky and frantic in the moonlight pouring through the open window. His mouth was slightly open and Sam could hear him making small wounded noises, and after a few long moments he leaned one shoulder heavily on the wall and gulped a ragged breath that was very near a sob. Sam slid a little closer, reaching out a hand, lightly touching his brother’s arm.
“Hey,” he tried, gently, “Hey.”
“Dad,” Dean breathed, and Sam closed his eyes briefly.
It never really got any easier.
“Where,” Dean began, then broke off and shook his head. Pushed away and stumbled toward the door. His motions were clumsy, as if his body didn’t belong to him.
“Dean!” Sam lunged after him but Dean already had the door open and was slipping through it. Sam flung it wide and came up short, inches from his brother’s back, as Dean stared out at the cracked parking lot and the trees whispering in the night breeze.
“Dad?” Dean whispered, and Sam got both hands on his shoulders.
“Come back inside,” he said gently, tugging lightly. “Come inside. It’s dark, Dean.”
“I don’t…” Dean shook his head, slowly, and Sam was reminded again of his sleepwalking friend. He tightened his grip on his brother, tugged a little in the direction of the open door.
“I don’t understand,” Dean said, words slow and cracked around the edges. He looked at Sam briefly, eyes miserable and wide.
“Come back inside,” Sam said softly. “Please, Dean.”
“I don’t understand.”
Sam pulled him inside and closed the door carefully. “I know. I know you don’t. Just…here.” He helped his brother find the bedroll and blanket and Dean sat down heavily, hands drifting loosely in the air. He shut his eyes and opened them again, and looked out the window.
“I’m going to just…hang on.” Sam reached for the nearest lantern and clicked it on, then fumbled around for a lighter and began lighting candles. Dean watched, mesmerized, and Sam tried to ignore the way the firelight reflected in his eyes.
“Dad,” Dean said again, worrying one hand against the other, “He…he was yelling…” he trailed off and looked away, then back again at the fire. “He said to run…he said run.”
“Shh,” Sam murmured, ignoring the way his gut clenched at the gentle admonition, the way it felt like a betrayal.
“He said to run away and…hide.” Dean’s voice was distant, hollow. He was looking at something a long way off, eyes no longer fixed on the candle. Sam shivered a little. Dean half-closed his eyes and slowly turned his head from side to side, as if listening, as if he were tracking some distant noise. “Take your brother. Take your brother outside and don’t look back.”
“Shh,” Sam said again, setting the last candle down, unable to look him in the face. “Dean.”
“He said-”
“Dad’s not here, Dean.” Sam’s voice cut into his brother’s monologue and Dean’s mouth quivered, and hung open slightly. His throat worked as he tried to swallow without shutting it, and he rocked his upper body slightly and looked away, toward the wall where the firelight flickered. His eyes remained wide open, unblinking, and Sam’s own pricked in sympathy. He didn’t move any closer, though. That would be distracting, would just wind up making things worse.
Wherever Dean had gone, whatever he was looking at, he’d come back eventually. He always did.
Dean shut his eyes, completely, and went on rocking a little, his hands open and loose in his lap. His lips moved, but Sam couldn’t catch the words he whispered, the sound dry like the rustle of wings or fingers brushing against a wall. Whatever they were seemed to work, at any rate, and he stilled his movement by degrees, shoulders losing their tenseness, face relaxing gradually. In his lap his hands opened and closed and he drew one long careful breath through his nose, then another, blew them out through his mouth and then opened his eyes. His gaze swung back to Sam and for a moment his expression was flat, was something Sam didn’t recognize. The candlelight spilled across his face and Sam found himself wishing, wildly, for the shadows to come back, to swallow his brother’s features the way they had done when they were children.
“Hey,” Dean said, voice smooth and gentle and strong. “Sammy. Hey.”
Sam met his gaze, briefly, and caught the small smile that flickered across Dean’s mouth, the gentle crinkle around his eyes. The candle flame shone in his irises, his pupils.
Sam looked away, to the wall and then to the candle he was still holding in his hand. With care he reached up and set it on the dust-covered three-legged table where the camp lantern sat. He pulled his fingers away but didn’t look back at Dean.
His brother said, “Hey. It’s okay. It’s gonna be just fine.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, watching a bead of wax melt into a line down the side of the candle, eyes watering because he couldn’t seem to blink or look away. “Yeah, it is.”
______________________________
John said, “No. No, you can’t get up.”
John was the problem. John was big and cold and implacable and it was impossible to fight him. He didn’t have the strength to fight the man, or to protect Sammy. It was his job, but he couldn’t do it. Not like this. John was too strong. Struggling didn’t help.
John said, “No,” again, and his hand was huge over his face, pinching his nose, covering his mouth.
Sammy was sick. Sammy needed him.
“He doesn’t need you, Dean. You have to let this thing go. You’re a soldier. That’s your duty. You can’t let emotion slow you down.”
He struggled, grabbed John’s hand in both of his own, tried to wrench it off his face.
“Let it go, son.”
His eyes rolled in his head. His chest, his ribs jerked and struggled to contract, to draw in air. Sam was in the bed, Sam was sick, he needed someone to take care of him. John couldn’t do it. John didn’t know how.
“Calm down,” John was murmuring, from some distance away. Darkness clanged at the edges of his vision, battered at his ears. He scrabbled at John’s skin, nails tearing violently, but the man was implacable. Watched him with curious eyes as his whole body jerked, arching backwards, desperate for oxygen.
“Settle down.” John’s voice was blurry and thick. “You’re better than this, Dean. Be a soldier. Act like a soldier. I’ve given you an order.”
Orders weren’t for him. Soldiers followed orders and he wasn’t a soldier. It wasn’t his job. Sammy was his job.
But it was too late, too dark. He wasn’t strong enough to fight John.
Someone else could follow these orders.
He let go, and fell into the dark.
______________________________
When Sam woke up again the sun was burning through the window and Dean was standing in the doorway with a cellphone in his hand. He looked a little shell-shocked, as if he’d been smacked in the face and still couldn’t quite believe it.
“What?” Sam asked, and Dean’s eyes flicked to him.
“The fuck is this shit?” he demanded, his voice a low, ragged growl. Both hands were fists. Sam’s skin went cold. Flash-frozen.
“Dean?”
“I am not fucking around, Sam.” Dean strode into the room and Sam backpedalled hurriedly, scrambling out of the mess of blankets and hoisting himself up the nearest wall. “Not fucking playing with you.”
“What are you-”
“John called.” Dean waved the phone under Sam’s nose and repeated, “John called. He wants to know where the fuck I am.”
Sam swallowed, and kept his voice low.
“I didn’t bring you here, Dean.”
“He’s looking for me in Cali-fucking-fornia. Where I’m supposed to be.”
“You could go,” Sam said immediately, because the last thing he wanted was his brother’s fury directed at him. Dean’s voice was ugly and alien and Sam’s skin was trying to climb off his body. He flattened his hands against the smooth wall.
Sam’s immediate acquiescence seemed to surprise Dean, at least, and he rocked back a couple of steps, brow furrowing in the confusion that always accompanied this kind of anger. Sam had only been on the receiving end of it maybe two or three times in his entire life, and it always seemed to come from nowhere and disappear just as suddenly, leaving them both staggering and confused, Dean wracked with quiet horror. Sam wanted to slide along the wall, huddle on the other side of the little room. Dean was still too close, though.
He said, “I’m takin’ you back with me.”
Sam inhaled sharply. That had always been a risk. Dean was impossible to predict. The fact that he’d come for Sam was no guarantee he’d keep their father away indefinitely. This was the good soldier act making an unwanted appearance, probably thanks to the unexpected phone call from John.
Dammit. Damn it all to hell. He should’ve taken Dean’s phone.
“No, Dean.” Sam kept his voice as quiet as possible, though he already knew it wouldn’t help. “I’m not going back.”
Dean ducked his head, hunched his shoulders, whole posture aggressive.
“You wanna maybe rethink that,” he ground out. His voice like this had so little in common with his more familiar tones. It rasped, cruel and intimidating. He moved a little closer and pushed a hand into Sam’s hair, twisted a brown lock around one finger and cocked his head, staring at it as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
“You know John’s been looking for you for a long time. Hell of a long time. Kept asking me. Like I was supposed to know where the fuck you were hiding. Chickenshit.”
Sam kept his head very still, and his lips were stiff, but he managed to force the words out.
“I’m not going back.”
Dean curled his hand into a fist, trapping Sam’s hair, forcing him to lean down toward his brother, head tilted awkwardly.
“Sam.” His voice was full of warning.
Sam swallowed, throat dry.
“No, Dean.”
He was expecting the light slap to the side of his face, and the little shake his brother gave him, curling strong fingers around his jaw, forcing his mouth slightly open. It didn’t hurt, though, and Sam shook his head a little and forced himself to meet Dean’s flat, half-lidded gaze.
“I’m not going back. Dean, please.”
“You shit.” And this time, knowing it was coming didn’t help. Sam flinched anyway, and the blow bounced his head off the wall and smacked hard pain across his skull and behind his eyes.
“Why the fuck are you so stupid, Jesus-”
Dean hit him again, fist balled up and ramming into Sam’s temple, knocking him to the floor. Lights and noise crashed inside his skull and he curled up, shielding his head, gasping. Dean slammed a foot against his side and Sam dropped his arms and took the kick, hard. Shit. It hurt, muscle buckling, smacking against the bone. He scrabbled backward with one hand, kicking his legs on the floor, even as he curled in tighter on himself. Stop it, don’t hit me, fuck, stop it, stop. Dean snarled and grabbed for Sam’s head, wrenching his arm clear, shaking him by the hair. Sam grit his teeth, flung a hand at his brother and Dean slapped it away and hit him again, across the face, knuckles mashing his lip into his teeth. Warmth erupted across his mouth, over his chin.
“Where the fuck do you get off running away who told you it was okay you fucker you fucker-” Dean’s voice tore on the words and he punctuated his tirade with hard slaps to Sam’s face, slamming him down on the dusty carpet again, cracking the side of his fist against Sam’s ear until he cried out.
“Dean stop! Please! I’m sorry, I’m-”
“Shut up, shut up, God you stupid fuck I don’t know why I ever put up with you…”
Sam heaved out a sob and struggled away from his brother, dragging himself across the carpet toward the bathroom door. Blood ran down his face, and tears, and snot. He gulped back another sob, clawing it down into the hollowness inside his chest. Dean might kill him. He didn’t want to die.
Oh God, I don’t want to die.
Dean could have stopped him from crawling away. Maybe he was going to. Maybe he wanted to. But somehow Sam reached the bathroom, scrabbling through his mind for some words, for some protection, something strong enough to save him. Save them both. Somehow. Something from Dad, maybe. Something Dean would hear, something he’d listen to.
The Lord is my shepherd, the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not
He hauled himself into the little room, fingers and palms pressed into the floor. Not because he thought it would be safe, but because there was nowhere else to go. He kicked the door closed as best he could but it didn’t shut completely.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” he whispered, wiping at his face, at the blood and saliva and tears. “The Lord is my, my shepherd I shall not be in want.” He could hear footsteps pacing across the carpet outside. He cringed, and pressed himself into the far corner of the little, blasted-out room full of dust and rubble, curling up and burying his face in his arms, his hands fisted against his head. He couldn’t remember the rest of the psalm. All he could hear was the heavy tread of boots, drawing closer, and the noise in his head, the hard pain in his skull. The words wouldn’t come. His mouth hurt, and his jaw, and the side of his head. Hurt.
He doubled back, regrouped. Whispered, “Give us this-”No, no. “Our Father. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy n-name-” Thy kingdom come
The door opened. He felt the rush of air sweep across the floor, and he flinched and curled up tighter, hands crushed to his head.
Thy kingdom come thy kingdom
For thine is the
kingdom
“Give us this day our daily bread,” he pushed out desperately, words tripping on words, “Give us this day-and and and…”
forgive us
“…forgive us our trespasses, shbwoqan l’khayyabayn, forgive us as we forgive-”
for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory
“-sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris forgive wela tahlan l’nesyuna-”
The footsteps drew closer, and stopped. Sam’s skin burned, and he knew what he was waiting for. But….
forgive
But the fist in his hair didn’t come, and the shaking didn’t come. Instead a gentle palm found the back of his skull, and another cupped the side of his head.
for ever and ever
“L'ahlam almin,” Sam gasped, and looked up into Dean’s wide, horrified eyes.
Amen.
“Jesus, Sammy,” his big brother whispered, hauling Sam in, wrapping him up in powerful arms. “Holy Christ.”
Forever and ever, Sam didn’t say, but grabbed onto his big brother and pushed desperately into his space with a little broken noise. Dean, who was whispering to him the way he’d done when they were children. Small, soft words. Infinitely gentle. Hand on the back of Sam’s head, carefully combing through his hair.
“Okay now,” Dean breathed, almost sing-song, voice trembling slightly, “You’re okay, kiddo. Settle down. Settle down. You’re gonna be all right.”
Sam shuddered, and nodded against his brother’s shoulder.
Eventually Dean pushed him back, a little, and wiped at Sam’s face with one hand.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
Sam nodded mutely, and let his brother shove an arm under his shoulders and half-drag him through the room and out onto the stoop, into the brilliant morning sun. Didn’t protest when Dean turned his face toward the light, or wince when his brother left and returned with alcohol and rags, and began to carefully clean his face.
“Jesus, what a mess, what a godawful mess,” Dean murmured as he worked, and his was voice back to the timbre Sam remembered best, loved best-quiet and honey-warm, resonant and smooth. A little soft around the edges, but steady and strong.
Sam shivered, deep down in his bones.
It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine.
______________________________
Bright and screaming. The night, the walls. Light in Sammy’s room filling up the hallway, filling everything. The whole world. A high voice screaming. Animals maybe, angry and tearing. Like something hurt, or dying the way birds died, screaming the way a baby would scream.
Or something else.
Light flickered at the edge of his vision.
“Dean!”
A heavy weight was shoved into his arms. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t really. His chest hurt, and his eyes burned in the light. Bright and loud and it hurt his ears. Someone screaming, some animal and Sammy crying.
“Take your brother.”
Sammy was so heavy.
“Dean!”
Big and loud, huge and bright. Empty. Empty like the sky. Screaming things pushing on his head. On the walls. Pushing back the walls. Fire.
A light.
“Take your brother! Take your brother outside and don’t look back!”
Run and hide.
It was too bright. Too open. Big and bright. Huge and open, empty. No light. No noise. No screamingscreaming. No. No.
No.
He ran and didn’t fall. Sammy didn’t fall. The light didn’t follow him and the roaring screaming noise faded as he clattered down the stairs and out the door and his chest and legs and arms hurt. He spun and looked back at the light and there was no one, no one, just the light in the window and the huge night spinning away, the stars and the tree overhead spreading silent branches.
His breath was short and his head was light. Everything was far away. Happening far away. Huge hands grabbed him up and carried him and a noise like someone shouting split open the dark, smacked him on both sides of his head, swallowed up every sound. He couldn’t hear Sammy. Couldn’t hear anything at all.
It was dark and quiet and bright and loud and and and
Everything
All together all at once
Screaming
Where was
Where
“Dean,” barked a voice, and big hands shook him and he looked up into a shadowy face and he could see the sky behind it, black and full of stars. Tiny and distant.
“Hold on to your brother, son,” Dad’s voice rumbled, and Dean tightened his grip on the little bundle. Everything was still spinning and far away and opened-up-wide but Sammy wasn’t crying anymore. Was making a baby noise and Dean looked down, then up, then turned to look back at the house burning like a candle, burning. Fire. Fire. Fire.
“You look after Sammy, now. You do that, Dean.”
He nodded, even though his head felt far away. Was strange. Gone away, maybe. Full of black and stars. But he nodded and a kind of quiet came up, then, from somewhere in his chest or maybe from outside. Quiet and still. He had a job. He had a job.
Take care of Sammy.
His legs folded up and he curled himself down, a little, over Sammy. Protecting him from the light, from the big black sky.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmured, and rocked them both very gently. “It’s all gonna be okay.”
-End-
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Notes:
1) I made an effort here to approach this subject in a way that a) hadn’t been done before, and b) relied as little as possible on standard narrative conventions and popular conceptions of MID/DID. I’m not really looking to get into a debate re: the veracity of DID (versus other dissociative disorders, which as far as I know are not in question in the psychiatric community) or its representation here. I will say, though, that I’ve read material on the subject which then went on later to be established as more or less fallacious, or at least questionable. So I wasn’t really interested in following the set patterns because I think they represent an oversimplification of the nature of human consciousness and dissociative disorders in general. Others may disagree, which is their prerogative.
2) I’ve read a few fics dealing with MID/DID in which the alters are basically static, and exist more as set pieces than as parts of a psyche. For this fic I wanted to explore the ways in which alters could actually exist as part of a system which evolved organically to help a psyche cope with a dangerous and challenging situation.
One of my biggest concerns was avoiding caricaturizing the alters. A lot of the material I wrote and discarded did exactly that.
3) When I was preparing to write this I toyed with the question of whether or not this would be set in a reality where monsters, ghosts, demons, etc., exist. Ultimately I didn’t make a conscious decision regarding it, but it became necessary to represent John as being at the very least dangerously psychotic/delusional. This suggests that the monsters don’t exist, which makes me wonder if John, in this reality, is a killer…it’s a possibility. It also sort of suggests some things about his sons….
4) I tried hard to explore the impact that the sort of childhood that would lead to the development of a severe dissociative disorder would have on a sibling, which is the reason so much material is given to Sam here. I kind of think Sam is just about as screwed up as Dean+alters here, in his own way. Poor guys. There’s no way either of them were getting out unscathed.
5) The verse comes from W.H. Auden’s The Two, which will be immediately recognizable to anyone who’s read Watership Down. I hadn’t actually seen more of the poem than the part that appears in Adams’ book, but it was in the back of my mind as I worked on this, so I went and looked it up, and it was sufficiently creepy. The subject matter is different, but it seemed like it fit well enough, so….
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I've posted most of the original draftwork that I later discarded, for anyone who is crazy enough to want to see what the writing process on this was like--and why this version looks the way it does.
Find it here.
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